When I Don't Want To
by Sammiantha-x
Summary: Style fic, multi-chapter. Based and written loosely around the song Weakness In Me, about how Stan and Kyle come to terms with how they feel about each other. This is the edited and completely redone version of one of my old stories.
1. Sunday, Stan

**AN: Ok, so I posted this story a while ago without really reading through the chapters because it had been sitting on my desktop for ages. Thing was, it was absolute rubbish. I've gone through and tried to fix up the chapters I posted, deleted a few and hopefully just cleaned it up a bit. Please review for mee. =) **

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Stan threw his hat against his wall as hard as he could, furious, confused and frightened.

A kiss. A kiss?! Where the _fuck _had that come from?! And why had it taken it _six seconds_ before he'd shoved Kyle away angrily and stalked off? _Six seconds! _That was practically hard-core mouth sex. He'd had mouth sex with his best friend. With his red-headed, freckled, Jewish, oh-so-suddenly _appealing _best friend.

He groaned, and collapsed onto his bed in the most melodramatic fashion he could manage. Things had been going as usual, hanging out at Stark's Pond, mucking around in the snow. And then what? Stan wracked his brains, trying to remember the fateful events that had lead up to this earth-shattering, world-ending mouth sex. They had thrown snowballs, yes, and then... and then Kyle had been laughing because his green trapper hat had been knocked off his head, so that little droplets of melted snow were clinging to the fiery curls that surrounded his face, and dripping off the end of his nose, and then he'd started squirming because he'd had cold water running down his back. What next?

Stan closed his eyes, his brain addled and confused. He couldn't remember what had happened next, and anyway it wasn't really important. The only important bit was the part where Stan had scooped up a fistful of loose snow, leaned in real close so that he could dump it straight on top Kyle's head, and been completely distracted from his genius, evil plan when Kyle had pressed their lips together. It had been a cold kiss at first, cold and numb because of the weather, but then... then it had warmed up because they were both suddenly moving with frantic haste and there was friction and there were _tongues _and Stan had fallen backwards and Kyle had fallen with him (Stan refused to even acknowledge the possibility that he had pulled Kyle on top of himself) and then, and then... Ugh! He had woken up from the stupid, idiotic daze that the kiss had captured him in, pushed the red head off him as hard as he could, and walked as fast as he could until even the memory of what had happened was out of sight. Once he rounded the corner and was out of Kyle's view, he'd began to run. Straight home. He'd passed Kenny on the street without as much as a smile. At the front door, he hadn't even bothered to remove his snow-drenched coat and shoes, leaving soggy wet footprints behind him as he sprinted up the stairs and into his room, the door of which he'd slammed behind him with enough force to satisfy a tiny bit of the fury that had him filled to the brim.

Fury, because best friends didn't _kiss, _and they didn't think things about each other, not the sort of things that even now were flying around Stan's head, bursting with the prospect of a whole new way of feeling and all new things that _best friends did not do_. The truly infuriating thing was that now that they had shared a kiss, Stan was desperate for more, for _anything _more that might help to fill the gaping void that he could now feel burning beneath his heart in his chest, the one that had appeared as soon as he had broken contact with Kyle, as soon as he had seen the fearful, stricken expression on the boy's face as he was sent sprawling away and onto the cold ground. Now that Stan was alone, all he could see were those big green eyes, hurting. And he wanted to make them stop hurting. And start smiling.

He had a girlfriend, of course, and she could _never _find out, because she would lose control. Not just at Stan, but at Kyle too, and then all of South park would find out, would find out that they had _kissed, _and were feeling things, and were... Oh God. No. Wendy could definitely not find out.

And how could he go to school tomorrow? How could he meet Kyle at the bus stop, walk to school with him, sit in class next to him, eat lunch next to him? How could he do that without _attacking _him, because now that he was alone with his thoughts all Stan wanted to do was _attack_ Kyle, and punch him, and pin him down, and bite his neck, and pull his hair, and, God, he had _such _soft hair...

He crammed his pillow on top of his face in despair, groaning loudly. This was a mess. He had kissed Kyle, and now he wanted Kyle, and couldn't face Kyle, and couldn't face _Wendy, _and he was going insane. Best course of action? He was seriously considering just jumping into the pond and letting himself freeze to death, but then he would have died without ever, you know, experiencing life properly, and really, that couldn't be done. So what else could he do? Play sick, skip school for a few days while he gathered his bearings? Sure, but then Kyle might think he was _afraid_, too afraid to face him, and then their friendship and whatever else they had right now would crumble away because Kyle would realise what a wimpy, stupid loser Stan was, and would find somebody better, like... like Kenny, or Clyde, and then they'd be happy, and Stan would grow up with Wendy and they'd have Christian babies with black hair and his life would be empty, and, and, and - at this point he took a gasping breath, because for that entire stream of thought he had forgotten to inhale - and then he would die never knowing what it felt like to wake up beside Kyle in the morning. Which he suddenly wanted more than anything.

This was _so _not normal. And it was All. Kyle's. Fault.

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**AN: Review!**


	2. Monday, Kyle

Kyle awoke on Monday morning after a night of very little sleep, and dragged himself out of bed. He moved through the motions of preparing for school robotically, his mind foggy, only springing to life when the time came to pull on his hat. Try as he might, he just could not get the damn thing to sit on his head in a way that didn't allow his stupid red curls to fall around his face. Eventually, after an age of rearranging and fierce pulling, he simply discarded it on the floor altogether with an angry exclamation. Forget it. He'd just go without today.

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to arrange it into some semblance of a style. It was longish, curling at the base of his neck and falling to frame his face. He thanked God that his infamous Jewfro had become calmer in the years since his childhood, though it still flamed a bright, fire-engine red. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at his reflection, freckles and all, then turned and grabbed his schoolbag, ready to depart. As he entered the kitchen his mother greeted him, and Ike threw a banana at him, which Kyle caught deftly and jammed into his pocket. He was just about to leave the house when he caught sight of himself in all his hatless glory in the glass window, and in a moment of weakness he dashed madly back into his room and jammed the worn green item onto his head before racing out the door.

Outside, the street was still covered in snow, and Kyle began the short trek to the town's only secondary education building, stuffing the banana into his mouth hungrily. It wasn't often he ever got to eat a proper breakfast, but his mother was insistent that he eat _somthing _in the morning, taking every oppurtunity she could to feed him while squawking at him that he was getting far too thin.

"I swear, one day soon you're going to blow right away in the wind." This made him wince, of course. He didn't need reminding that he was one of the scrawniest boys in his year. It was bad enough having bright red, unmanageable hair and a religion that didn't fit with anyboy else's. He didn't need to be told he was small as well.

Once he reached Stan's house he stopped out of habit, to wait for the boy. His dark-haired best friend was always running late, and it seemed that today was no exception despite the fact that it meant Kyle had to wait in the freezing cold air as he took his sweet time. He gave a nervous tug at one of his curls, suddenly self-concious again about the way he looked, and as the door to the house opened his heart began to beat a thousand times faster than he was used to. When he turned to wave and smile at the person walking towards him, trying to look something like normal, he was sure they'd be able to hear it even over the whistling of the wind. How embarrassing.

He was just about to yell at Stan to hurry up, because he was walking awfully slowly, when he realised that it wasn't actually Stan at all, but his mother, looking confused.

"He's already gone, hun. He left about ten minutes ago." She frowned slightly, dumping the trash bag she had brought outside with her onto the street for collection. "I thought you'd gone with him."

Kyle stared at her, his mouth hanging open as she turned to go back inside. Once the door had shut behind her, he turned slowly back to the footpath, closing his mouth with concentrated effort.

So that's how it was going to be. One kiss, and ten years of tradition out the window. They'd been walking to school together since they were _six. _Kyle kicked the snow beneath his feet angrily, walking faster than normal until he reached the bus stop that had remained the meeting place that they gathered at every morning despite the fact that they had stopped bussing years ago. Yes, he'd done something remarkably stupid that he shouldn't have, and sure, Stan had every right to be mad at him,but couldn't the boy be mad at him while they were walking to school? Wasn't that a fairly reasonable request?

The thing was, Kyle had only kissed Stan to see what it felt like. It wasn't even something he'd planned. He'd just wanted to know if the jerking in his stomach every time he saw his friend was for a particular reason, and the moment had presented itself to allow him to find out. Conclusion? Well, okay, it had been incredible. Amazing. Possibly the best moment of his life. And yes, Kyle had begun to notice some things lately, things about Stan that had previously remained hidden to him. Things like how he'd roll his blue eyes whenever somebody did something he deemed particularly stupid, or reach up to grab the red pompom that sat atop his blue hat when he was nervous. Things like how he'd look at Kyle sometimes with an expression that was completely so completely unfathomable that it made his red-headed best friend want to just get a rock and smash open the boy's head so the all the mysterious thoughts he was thinking came spilling out.

Conclusion? Maybe it could be love.

He approached the three boys waiting for him with a brief nod, noticing with a pang the way Stan's back was turned to him. He ignored Kenny's questioning eyes. The fatass opened his mouth to speak, and Kyle, knowing that whatever came out would probably be rude, would probably be insulting, and would definately, in some way, be about him, took a deep, tolerant breath.

"So, now that the Jew has decided to _finally _grace us with his presense, shall we leave? Hmm?" The fat boy then proceeded to lead the way down the side of the road, his feet sinking into the loose snow, Kenny and Stan close behind and apparantly deep in conversation. Kyle brought up the rear, sulkily staring at his feet. At one point, he attemtpted to join in the conversation that the two boys in front of him were so deeply immersed in (something about ducks), but the glare he recieved from Stan in exchange was so hostile that he'd shut his mouth, occupying himself instead with imagining the different ways he could off himself and so escape the ache in his heart that was growing steadily by the second.

When they reached school, Stan and Kyle didn't have their first class together; while Kyle suffered through American History, Stan was in Gym showing off his football skills. This gave the red-headed Jew time to reflect on his options, tuning out the droning voice that was trying to teach him something usless about the civil war. He figured there were two main paths he could walk down: the confrontational one, or the 'leave well enough alone, and allow Stan to come to terms with things in his own time' one. It was obvious which seemed to be the less difficult option, as well as the one less likely to get him punched in the face. Of course, there was no guarentee that Stan ever _would _come to terms with the fact that his best friend had kissed him, but he'd never been the type to hold grudges, right? No, he'd definately try option two, and if Stan really seemed to be taking a ridiculous amount of time to get a grip, well... maybe then he'd try to have a word with the boy.

The rest of the day passed slowly for Kyle, the classes with Stan a constant battle not to burst into tears because he was being so completely ignored, and the classes without Stan even more torturous because he was left to imagine all of the awful things that his (seemingly ex-) friend probably wanted to do to him. When the time came to go home he didn't wait for the others, choosing instead to walk home with Bebe, who provided mind-numbingly boring conversation, just the thing needed to keep Kyle's mind from wandering back to the blue-eyed face that was haunting his every waking thought. When he arrived home, Ike greeted him with a wave and a nod (which he ignored), and he headed into his room, unsure what to do with himself. He tried homework, internet and television, all which failed to distract him. He tried to tell himself that confrontation was a mistake. He tried to convince himself that Stan would respond better if given time, despite the fact that he doubted he could spend another day like this one, being ignored and feeling so terribly alone. He tried to steer his mind away from the urges he was having to go and have it out with the boy right then, but the need to see him, talk to him and _fix _things was too great, and so he was still telling himself all the reasons why he _shouldn't _go to the Marsh home as he walked out the door.


	3. Monday, Stan

Stan had been trying as hard as he could all day. First, he'd walked by himself to the bus stop, deciding it would be less difficult to keep his hands off Kyle if the Jew wasn't actually there. Then when they'd all reached the bus stop and set off he'd attatched himself to Kenny, letting Kyle know with an angry glare that he wasn't welcome in their conversation. It had quite obviously been a conversation for friends that _didn't _kiss each other.

He'd worked himself up into quite a frenzy about the kiss you see. His reasoning was, if Kyle hadn't kissed him, then Stan wouldn't be feeling all the strange, pulsing, unfamiliar things that he was currently trying to deal with, and he certainly wouldn't be battling with the crazy notion that Kyle was, in fact, so extremely desirable. How dare he be so desirable?

Wait... Desirable? No, disgusting. How dare he be so... so... so gay. Yeah. That was it. Gay. How dare he. Right. And how dare he -

"Ow!"

Stan was jolted out of his thought process by an unhappy-sounding Wendy, who currently lay positioned beneath him, shirt riding up around her armpits, face flushed. Startled, it took Stan a moment to realise that she sounded so displeased because he was yanking at a fistful of her hair, his other hand balled into a fist beside her head. Oops. Embarrassed, he unwound his fingers from her silky black locks, propping himself up on an elbow and trying to appreciate her slim form as it wriggled beneath him uncomfortably. She was a pretty girl, with a great body. Magnificent tits. So why, why, _why _ was he thinking about Kyle while her tongue was unabandonedly roaming his mouth?

He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss onto her slightly swollen lips.

"Sorry," he whispered, and just like that her unhappy expression was gone, the tongue was back in his mouth and his hand was travelling steadily upwards along the smooth skin of her flat stomach, his index finger tracing the lower curve of her breast through the lacy red bra she wore. He could tell she liked that because her hands pressed firmly at his shoulders, as though she was trying to pull them closer together. He smiled into her mouth, one hand beginning to sneak around her back, fumbling for the clasp of her bra, clumsily trying to unhook the strange, difficult contraption. He was just thinking how this would be so much easier to do with someone who didn't wear a bra, say, someone like Kyle (no, no, do _not _think about Kyle, not now), when the catch came undone. Victory! His hand slid back along to her front, ready to claim his reward for beating the treacherous item of clothing, and she moaned into his throat when his thumb gently began to massage her. Brilliant. Encouraged by this, Stan began to kiss her with less care, and the complete occupation of his hands and mouth meant that it took him a few seconds to register the fact that there were footfalls coming up the stairs, and he was just beginning to realise that disentanglment may be necessary when Kyle himself came bursting through the door, pale-faced but for the harsh red flushing his cheeks from the cold. The first thing Stan notied was the way his freckles stood out well out against the gentle, pale, very _un-_Jewish ski-slope of his nose. The second thing he noticed was Wendy, attempting to push him off her, yanking her shirt down and trying to tidy her hair. As he climbed off of her slowly she moved into a sitting position, turning to greet Kyle, who stood still as a statue in the doorway.

"Uh, hey Kyle." She gave a small, sheepish smile, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The boy didn't respond, a shocked expression adorning his face, and suddenly Stan was filled with the urge to cause him extreme pain, How dare he look so hurt? How dare he ignore Wendy like that? This was Stan's _girlfriend, _ and Kyle had no right to come in here and make Stan feel guilty for touching her the way he did. Kyle had kissed Stan behind _Wendy's _back, not the other way around. They weren't doing anything wrong.

He sent his most poisonous glare his best friend's way, but by the time he'd opened his mouth to say something Kyle was gone again, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared, the door swinging shut behind him. Stan tried to stifle the urge to chase after the boy. Wendy placed a hand on his chest.

"Well, that was weird," she said brightly, pushing Stan backwards gently. "Now... where were we?"

He waited until she was happy to leave (which didn't take long, because according to her he was in a 'foul mood'), showed her out the door, picked at his dinner and fell into his bed. Sleep didn't come, but the haunting image of Kyle's heart breaking right in front of him did. And it hovered behind his eyes until the clock read 1.36, and the rest of his house slept.

He had some things he knew he had to fix. Kyle had completely ruined his fun this afternoon, and now Wendy was mad at him. He needed to know that he couldn't just burst into Stan's life whenever he felt like it with his kissing and his sad eyes and his freckles. He needed to be told that now, and with lots of yelling and anger involved. Anger, yelling, and heavy objects being thrown. At heads. Yes. That was a good plan. He would let Kyle know how furious he was, make the boy feel as bad as possible, hurt him, and then maybe Kyle would go away, take his face and his body and his desirability with him, and Stan would be able to get to sleep again. He'd be normal. Things could go back to being normal. That was, if the word normal could even be applied in a place like South Park.

Filled with resolve, anger and a plan, the dark-haired boy slid out of bed, pulled on some pants, a jacket and his woollen blue hat, creeping downstairs and into the garage where he pulled on some shoes. Show time.


	4. Monday Night, Stan

Stan crept out of his house as noiselessly as he could. Outside, snow was falling, and the snow crunched beneath his feet as he quietly cursed himself for not wearing more than a tee-shirt and his jacket. In a place like South Park you could never be wearing too many layers, especially at night in the middle of winter. Stan shivered, feeling stupid and then angry, angry at Kyle because he was the reason Stan was out in the cold in the first place. He was the reason Stan was feeling so useless, angry, confused, hurt and, surprisingly, even happy, because the kiss had awakened a part of himself that he hadn't even known existed, and it was thrilling at the same time as it was fucking terrifying. As he rounded the bend that lead to Kyle's block he felt his anger coming in steady waves, burning red behind his eyes and mingling with the excitement that was coming from god-knows where at the prospect of seeing the small, ginger-haired Jew, filling Stan with a passionate energy that was going to be unleashed full-force_._ Tonight was the night for revenge.

_He kissed you, and now he's ruining your life with these feelings. Make him hurt, make him pay, make him moa- _

He cut himself off, trying to ignore the sudden pleasant throb in the pit off his stomach. _Be angry. It's his fault. Entirely his fucking fault._

Creeping around the side of the Broflovski house, he made his way through the snow carefully until he'd reached the window that he'd snuck through a thousand times, for secret sleepovers, for attempts to coax the book-smart boy out on a Friday night to have some actual fun with his friends, even once on Christmas eve when he'd known Kyle had been feeling left out. He was about to knock when he realised he didn't want to give Kyle the satisfaction of watching him scramble awkwardly through the window, because this was no ordinary night (and if he saw Kyle looking all tired and confused his heart strings might snap at the sight and he'd never get the satisfaction of punching the boy in the face). No, he wanted Kyle to be caught by surprise. He wanted Kyle to be scared of him, as soon as he saw him, and that just would not happen if Stan was to gain entry through Kyle's own admission to let him in.

He tried to think of another way to get in. The door would all be locked, the windows all shut... But there was always Ike. He crept a little further around the side of the house, and fumbled for a rock beneath the cold, thin layer of snow. Finding one that didn't seem too large, he looked above him, where there was a faint light to be seen creeping beneath a drawn curtain in the upper story of the house. Taking aim, he threw, not too hard, and winced as the rock hit the window with a shallow-sounding crack. Next thing he knew, there was a drowsy-looking, dark-haired boy's head sticking out the window. He waited as the pre-teen's eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark, and he could see the dark-haired head straining outwards in the effort to find the person who'd woken him. When the young Canadian finally made out the shape of Stan, the older boy saw him grin with recognition, pleasant surprise at he contact shining through eyes were still slightly droopy from sleep.

"Hey there, Romeo. Did you bring me flowers?" Stan grinned at the young boy's cheeky playfulness, a feature he shared with his admittedly slightly more serious brother. When they had been younger, Stan, Kyle and the others had found Ike increasingly annoying (Kyle usually still did), but the younger boy had developed a wicked sense of humour over the years, and at the age ten was (in Stan's opinion) a pretty neat kid. Even if he did still sleep with a night light.

"Get your ass down here and let me in," the older boy hissed upwards in a harsh whisper, his tone contrasting with his face, which he pulled an exaggerated face with for the boy's amusement. Ike responded with a laugh, and then gave a puzzled look between Stan and the direction of his older brother's bedroom window. His eyes darted back and forth for a few seconds until Stan thought he saw a mild sort of comprehension dawn on the boy's face. He let out a relieved sigh as Ike's head disappeared, the window being shut and the curtain drawn once more.

In a few moments he was being let in the back door, which led into the garage. Stan thanked the young boy with an affectionate ruffle of dark hair, and told him to go back to bed, an order that Ike was all too glad to follow, though he walked away complaining that he was _never _going to get back to sleep. Stan rolled his eyes and went to stand in front of Kyle's closed bedroom door, quietly letting his anger build slowly from the pit of his stomach to fill all the rest of his body until even his fingertips were tingling with furious energy, wanting to punish Kyle for the way that he had changed their lives forever. He knew deep in his heart that things would never, never be the same again. This thought made him madder than ever, and taking a deep breath, he charged inside, the door swinging shut behind him.


	5. Monday Night, Tuesday Morning, Kyle

Kyle was sitting in his bed, reading and minding his own business, when Stan Marsh came bursting through the door looking like he wanted to inflict serious harm.

How Stan had got there inside his house and through his door, Kyle did not know, and that particular moment he wasn't really even that fussed, because he was much more concentrated on backing himself up against the wall the his single bed rested against, trying desperately to put some space between his startled self and the murderous figure that was advancing steadily upon him, pain and anger being promised with a look that screamed death, pain and revenge. He looked around him for a form of defence, anything that might help soften (or even prevent) the face-shattering blow that he was sure was headed his way, but the only thing that was close enough to grab was the pillow that sat wedged between him and the mattress. With a desperate yank he pulled it from beneath himself, just in time to cushion the force of the weight that was thrown unceremoniously against him, causing him to knock his head hard against the wall. A dull ache began to spread the back of his skull and his eyes swam with black, but he got no opportunity to complain or even attempt to push the boy off him, because as soon as he opened his mouth to speak there was an additional mouth pressing onto it, and it's hard to form words when there are teeth biting at your lips and hands clawing desperately at the front of your shirt. It took all of two seconds for Kyle's self control and logic to leak out of him completely, and once that was gone all that was left were two desperate, lust-driven teenage boys that each wanted to consume the other entirely until there was one entity left, made up of the best bits of the both of them, one heart beating between them. When Stan grabbed Kyle's wrists and forced them against the wall by his head, he was met with no resistance, nor did he receive any complaints when his mouth moved from the boy's lips to his neck, insistently biting and sucking until an actual, tangible moan escaped from the red-headed Jew's mouth, one that seemed to invigorate the dark-haired boy with even more energy. Kyle would reason with himself later, when thinking back, that it was hard _not_ to moan when the person he was pretty sure he loved was treating him like some sort of... well, some sort of person that he'd actually want to kiss. Stan's hands released Kyle's and the boy slid onto his back, the weight of the other teenager falling upon him none to gently. Stan's fingers wove through the bright, messy curls that adorned his best friend's head, looking richer than ever in the dim, low light that emanated from the small lamp on Kyle's bedside table. He yanked the boy's head up, nipping angrily along his jawbone, eliciting another moan that was the result of a million little ripples of pleasure melting down Kyle's spine. When their mouths met again he responded with vigour, his fingers digging into the skin of Stan's back, bare beneath the shirt and jacket that his hands had snaked under. His mind was foggy, clouded by the incredibly amazing feeling he was currently experiencing that surpassed anything he'd ever felt before.

It was only when there was a hand fumbling at the front of the baggy old tracksuit pants he wore to bed that Kyle began to regain some semblance of composure, and that was only because, despite the heat that was quickly building in the pit of his stomach and the way that Stan had attacked his neck in a way that he just _knew _was going to leave embarrassing, angry red marks, he was reluctant to let things go any further when he knew the only reason things were happening in the first place was probably because of misplaced anger on Stan's behalf. His dark-haired best friend would probably never even talk to him again if they ended up doing, well... anything. Anything more than this.

They at least had to talk first. About things like Wendy, for instance. Kyle had the distinct impression that the poor girl had no idea what was taking place right now between her boyfriend and his best friend. He doubted she'd appreciate it.

And what if his parents heard them? What if his mother came in and found them doing all sorts of unholy things in his bed? He'd be sent away for sure, and while having Stan devour him was entirely pleasurable at this particular moment in time, he might not remember it so fondly if he was being packed off to some remote Jewish boarding school in Canada.

He put his palms to Stan's chest, which was heaving, and was startled for a second by the pure force of the heart he could feel beating beneath his fingers. He realised that there was nothing he wanted more than to feel it pressed against his own, which was beating just as hard, and for a moment he was tempted to let Stan continue whatever he was doing, to let the boy use him as he wanted, screw his parents and the consequences. This was too good, too amazing to pass up.

He was content for a moment, ready to let things happen as they would. But his brain, which had begun to work again, was screaming full-volume at him now, and he was forced to consider not only what it would mean if he was caught, but what it would mean for him if Stan got what he wanted, and then realised that he'd _got what he wanted. _Would it really be worth the hurt that would come afterward, when Stan decided Kyle just wasn't worth the trouble? Did he really want to experience being used like a toy and then dropped when Stan's lust was fulfilled? The teeth grazing at his collarbone said yes, but Kyle's brain was screaming no, and so it was with great reluctance and a heavy feeling of loss that Kyle attempted to heave the heavier boy off of him. When no attention was paid, and Stan's hands were about three seconds from abolishing Kyle's resolve completely, he forced his tongue to form the word that every nerve ending in his body was resisting:

"St-stop."

Well, that caught Stan's attention, and suddenly the dark-haired boy was still. His blue hat still sat upon his head, slightly on an angle due to the frenzied activity that had been taking place, and his body lay poised above the other's, frozen but for his breathing. They sat that way for a second, Kyle pinned down with Stan's breath coming out in warm gusts against his neck, and then time sped up again and the boy's weight disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving Kyle feeling as though he was about to float away. He lifted his head to look at his friend, who was standing at the end of his bed looking mortified, confused, and maybe even a little disgusted. Kyle noticed this with a pang, and flicked his eyes away and up to the ceiling, letting his head fall to the mattress. His pillow lay discarded on the floor, shoved out of the way quite a while ago when Stan had obviously deemed it was getting in the way,

He didn't make a move until long after the boy had climbed out of his window and ran off into the night, which was even now slowly turning into day.


	6. Tuesday, Stan

Stan didn't sleep once he got home, though he had a few hours before he needed to rise and get ready for school. Instead, he chose to lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling, lacking the energy even to crawl beneath the covers.

What had he done?

He didn't understand how his angry, impetuous, must-kill-best friend rampage had turned into one of the most intensely passionate nights of his life. He'd arrived at the boy's house with the intention of making him hurt, and instead had ended up practically _eating _Kyle. For the last few hours he'd been running his tongue around his mouth repeatedly, sure that the taste of the Jew's smooth, pale neck still lingered there, a painful, delectable reminder of what had taken place. Delectable, delicious, the boy had been amazing to kiss, incredible to be kissed by. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard, Stan could still feel the pressure of bitten-down nails against his shoulder blades, jagged and sore. Could still hear the sound of Kyle's moans.

So what now? Obviously something had to be done, because it seemed that his composure would refuse to be kept when in the red-headed boy's company. But could he survive without him? They'd been best friends for so long... a bond like that, you couldn't just eliminate over night. And what would Kenny say? Cartman? There'd be questions asked, and eventually one of them would go insane by the constant needling and spill - and then what? All of South Park would know that Stan and Kyle, Super Best Friends since forever, joined at the hip, had kissed. Wendy would find out, and Stan's ass would be dumped. Kyle's parents would find out and then all Hell would really break loose (for the second time in their lives). It would be a disaster. At the risk of sounding like a certain blonde caffeine addict, Stan could just not handle that. It was way too much pressure.

So then did he, you know... _try _something with Kyle? Could he face the embarrassment? Could he stand the crowing laughter of Eric Cartman as he shrieked "_I told you so!" _ from the rooftops of their small town? Could he stand the hurt and betrayal in Wendy's eyes? He didn't think so.

There appeared to be a number of options, and every one of them impossible. No matter what he chose, somebody he cared for would get hurt. No matter what he chose, _he _would get hurt.

He was jolted from his melancholy thoughts by the sounding of his alarm, a harsh shrieking that sliced through the otherwise quiet air. With monotonous energy he crawled off his bed and into the bathroom, undressing and letting the heat of the shower thaw the numbness that had been spreading through him since Kyle had pushed them apart just hours earlier. When he had stood there for such a length of time that his fingers wrinkled and with the water so hot that angry red welts had appeared on his back, he switched the stream off, dried, dressed and pulled on some socks. Put on his hat. Grabbed his bag. When it came time to eat, he ignored the bowl of cereal his mother had laid out for him, didn't drink the milk that was fresh in the fridge. Didn't want to wash the taste of Kyle from his mouth. When he left it was early, but he didn't mind. He had no desire to meet his friends at the bus stop, had no desire for the company of Kyle right now, nor the two boys that he'd inevitably with. His feet crunched through the cold snow, and as he rounded the turn into the high school his decision was made: today, at least, he chose Wendy. The girl at least deserved a sporting chance, and Stan could hardly make an informed and fair choice when he'd had all of Kyle that day/ last night, and none of Wendy. Today, he wanted to be reminded why he'd liked her so much in the first place, wanted to forget the way Kyle's skin tasted and the way his hair curled red around his face, contrasting with the flushed red of his cheeks when he was excited or embarrassed, to forget how--

"Stan!" He turned, startled, right into the arms of his girlfriend, open wide. She wrapped them together in a tight hug of greeting that was made awkward by the hundreds of layers of winter clothes between them. He noticed how she was wearing a purple beret today, and it looked similar to the one she'd loved so much in primary school. He noticed how his stomach wasn't somersaulting. He tried his hardest not to lean away from her kisses.

They walked inside, hand in hand, and Stan was not feeling particularly optimistic. She was the one he wanted, wanted to love with all of his heart, but she was not the one he needed. Not right now.

The day passed slowly again. He avoided his friends whenever he could, paid no attention to the hurt, questioning, confused and sometimes even angry looks that Kyle insisted upon shooting his way. Whenever he felt the boy's eyes upon him, he turned away and into the warm gaze of his dark-haired, unfreckled, Christian girl, who was soaking up his attention and company like a sponge soaking up spilt milk. Actually, that was a bit like what he felt, spilt. Uncontained, running in every direction. Needing to be cleaned up. The only problem was that the one person that always, _always _scraped him up off the ground when he felt like this was the one person he couldn't face. Was the reason he was coming apart in the first place.

He didn't feel angry anymore. He was beginning to accept what had happened as inevitable. No, what bothered him now was only himself, and the way that he'd chosen to fall for the most difficult-to-fall-for person in the world. The way that if he chose Kyle, his life ended just as it began, and if he chose Wendy, he was left with companionship but not love. If he chose nobody, he was alone, and he'd still feel that awful pulling in his stomach, drawing him to his Super Best Friend, ripping him apart.

By the time lunchtime came, Stan was an emotional wreck on the inside, and for some reason this made it so much more important to appear every inch the doting boyfriend on the outside. Wendy, oblivious to his inner turmoil, lavished in the attention, showering him with kisses, engaging him in constant conversation about people and things that he didn't care about (that weren't Kyle), putting her arm around his waist so that he could smell the strawberry scent of perfume wafting from her hair. He knew he loved her. And they were a perfect match. But what he felt for her, he was finding, was growing more and more platonic with each passing second, and this discovery filled him so full with guilt that he started to jump at the sound of her voice. When she told him he looked tired and asked if he'd been up late, he just about choked.

"Uh, yeah, something I had to do," he muttered, wracking his mind for a change of subject. "Man, this weather suck _ass." _

There. Pathetic, but she went for it, launching into something or other about global warming, and Stan felt like he was going to be sick. There it was, the first lie, the beginning of deceit. Now, even if they stayed together for ever, that would always hang over him. He didn't want to lie to her. What choice did he have?

If she ever found out, she would feel stupid, and betrayed. That was his fault. That was on him.

School dragged by slowly, and by the time the school bell rang, he felt as though he was about to burst into tears (something he'd not done since the age of ten), or explode. His bag was heavy. It weighed down his shoulders.


	7. Tuesday, Kyle

Kyle had experienced many emotions that day.

First it had been pure confusion. Then, when he realised Stan was not at the bus stop, fear. Irritation when the Fatass suggested he might be dead, how sad. Even more irritation when he entered the school grounds to see him all wrapped up in Miss Testaburger. Anger when he realised the boy had no intention of telling her the truth, ever. Disgust, in himself, when he realised he didn't care, and would let Stan come back to his room again and again anyway, as much as he wanted. The strongest emotion that Kyle felt that day was bittersweet love.

At least Kenny understood. The orange-hooded boy didn't know what had gone down between the two Super Best Friends, and much to Kyle's eternal gratification, he didn't ask, but he did lend his weight when Kyle would suddenly find his knees buckling beneath him in the corridors, and he did tell the Fatass to shut the fuck up when he tried to start an argument. Yeah, Kenny was a good friend. A good buddy.

He still chose to walk home alone though. Kenny gave a shrug when Kyle told him he'd rather be alone and sorry, and tagged along with Craig, Tweek and Token instead. Cartman had debate club. He mulled around at his locker for a while, the one that was separated from Stan's by only two, that had been swapped for one further down the hall belonging to one certain boy with an affinity for bright orange parkas. It had cost them a month of lunches each, but at the time they'd considered it worth it.

He exited the school ground with minimal enthusiasm at the prospect of home, where he would most likely sit on his computer, try to do homework and avoid going near his bed, which still smelled of Stan. He wasn't sure how he was going to sleep in it tonight. Maybe he could wash his sheets.

He was just thinking about whether he could be bothered hand washing his hand-quilted comforter (a gift from the grandmother) when a familiar, dark head appeared before him, coming out of a nowhere space that Kyle discovered on passing was actually a spare door that, regarding its positioning, he assumed probably led out of the school's drama hall. Drama hall? Stan?

Weird.

Despite the fact that the sight of the boy had filled him with warring emotions of anger and excitement that mingled in a way that made him feel sick to his stomach, he sped up his pace to match the other boy's, who obviously had not noticed he was there yet.

"Did Wendy decide she was sick of you?" He fell into step with his friend, his tone coming out in a more biting fashion than he'd originally intended. Stan jumped and turned his head towards him, his expression startled. Kyle noticed with a sick sort of amusement that the boy's face was turning a steady shade of red. So he _did _realise what a cock he'd been. Good. Cocking an eyebrow at the other teen's lack of response, he sped up, all of a sudden more determined than he'd ever been to escape Stan's company. It suddenly seemed too large, stifling, omnipresent and inescapable no matter how fast he ran. He was just about to break into a full out, panicked run when his friend finally decided to voice an answer, causing Kyle to stop and turn.

"Debate club." The boy's voice was defensive, as was his face, telling Kyle that if wanted an argument then he was sure to get one. It was unfortunate that all Kyle felt at that exact moment was a weak feeling in his knees and a sudden, overpowering tiredness.

"Oh yeah. Must fucking suck to have to walk home all by yourself, you know, considering you obviously don't have any other friends."

It was weak and Kyle knew it. Inwardly, he winced at the sour tone of his voice, and the way that it sounded like he was trying to exercise biting wit and failing. He saw Stan's eyes darken for a moment, as though he wanted to say something mean back, but then it was as though all the life behind them evaporated, and he too looked knackered.

"Look," the dark haired boy said, his voice quiet and exhausted. Then, he said no more, turning into his house, his shoulders dropped and his head down. Kyle wanted to comfort him, but even more so he wanted him to continue feeling the way he did. Whatever was going through Stan's mind, it obviously wasn't pleasant. When he finally made it home, his thoughts were filled with images of himself and Wendy, dressed for a boxing match, fighting over Stan, who was suspended above the ring by some invisible force, and he was so wrapped up in this detailed mental daydream that he didn't register his mother's voice as he passed her in the kitchen. This lead to him jumping about a mile up into the air when he entered his room and there was a scruffy blonde boy clad in orange lounging across bed, reading the novel that he'd left on his bedside table.

"Hey," Kenny said, pushing himself off his stomach, letting the book flip shut. Kyle winced, knowing his page was good and lost. The parka'd boy must have noticed, because he motioned to the paperback and gave a thumbs up sign, forcing obviously-feigned interest into his voice.

"That's some really interesting stuff right there! I mean, okay, the main character is a bit of a poofter, but that chick he's in love one, the blonde one, she sounds like a real fucking babe, don't you think? Like, if she was real I'd _totally _tap that. No probs. And..." Eventually he trailed off, obviously figuring that there was no point continuing to talk when Kyle's disinterest was not only apparent, but just downright rude. The redheaded boy was willing himself to care, honestly. He just couldn't really give a flying fuck about the characters in his book (that Kenny in all reality knew shit-all about because he'd barely read it a quarter of the way through), not when his own life was seeming like such a horror story at the moment. When his friend started popping his knuckles after a few moments in silence, a habit that Kyle knew he had when he got bored, he figured he might as well do the polite thing and make conversation.

"So... what's up, dude?" He was pleased when his voice came out sounding friendly. Kenny looked up, his brown eyes appearing relieved at the final attempt at contact.

"Ah, well, you know, same shit different day. Um..." Kyle watched him fidget for a few more seconds, and was just about to tell the boy to get on with whatever he wanted to say when the orange hood was pulled off and Kenny let out a stream of words.

"Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about, and I figured I might as well do it today because I doubt your mood could get any worse-"

At this point Kyle opened his mouth to protest, Kenny cut him off with a wave of his mittened hand.

"-no, don't argue. Anyway. So, I just came her to ask you - tell you, actually - that I don't care what's going on between Stan and you, it's your business and all, but if you don't stop looking so fucking _helpless _around him all the time, my heart's going to fucking break and then I'll die." He inhaled deeply. "Because it's pathetic to watch." The boy looked pleased with himself for letting his words out into the open uninterrupted, and Kyle stared at him with an open mouth, his eyes non-comprehending and confused.

"Wait... wha-?" He cocked an eyebrow, completely lost, and Kenny sighed at him, sounding frustrated.

"I said, I don't-" Kyle cut him off impatiently, shaking his head sharply.

"N-no, don't say it again. I don't... I mean, oh Jesus. Jesus Christ. I really can't hear this right now. Fuck. Um..." His words were getting jumbled inside his head, and rightly so, because Kyle was fairly sure that in his own roundabout way, Kenny McCormick had just professed his previously concealed feelings of more-than-friend-affection for the red-headed Jew, and it was setting off fireworks in his head. Not the good kind that made you feel dizzy and happy and fuzzy, not like Stan gave him. These were different. They were dangerous and weird and warning him that he needed to let Kenny know, _right now, _to back off. They were thoroughly unpleasant fireworks.

Kenny sat perched on the edge of Kyle's bed, and as the red-headed boy spewed out his jumbled mess of thoughts, his face began to fall despite what Kyle thought must have been his best efforts to conceal it.

"Oh, yeah, well, that's cool. Y'know. Just though I should... Get this shit cleared the fuck up. So, now I'm going to go." He stood awkwardly, pulling on his hood and tugging at the strings until most of his face was concealed.

"I'll see you later." Muffled words, and then the boy was gone.

Kyle stared after him with disbelief, and then at the ceiling. What was this? Was this _possible? _Was it Jesus, up in Heaven, exacting the most torturous kind of punishment he could think of because Kyle was Jewish and didn't believe in him? Is that what this was? The Fatass would certainly think so, and for once the redhead doubted if he'd argue. This was insane. This was crazy. Impossible. Stupid. Ridiculous.

This fucking sucked _ass._

_---_

_**AN: Please, please, please review. Let me know how I can make this story better, what you like about it, what you think should happen. I need feedback! Thanks much.**  
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